


find me in the dark

by anxioussquirrel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, and ART!, canon adjacent, time jumps, two hundred years of Killian Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxioussquirrel/pseuds/anxioussquirrel
Summary: Blood and steel. Grief and wrath. And hope.Seers and nightmares, visions and choices.And a mysterious woman, seen only in dreams. Until she’s not.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 36
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Captain Swan story, but it takes its time to get there - using strange and winding paths.  
> A big thank you to [RecoveringTheSatellites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites) and [profdanglais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais) for beta-reading, super-helpful suggestions and being wonderful human beings <3  
> Gorgeous art by [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/), who is a wickedly talented art'tato and my personal favorite <3

* * *

* * *

**1.**

The girl standing at the corner of the tavern can’t be older than ten, wrapped up in a dirty gray cloak that is more holes than fabric. Her face is smudged with dirt and tear tracks, and there is a peculiar red birthmark surrounding one of her eyes. She looks up shyly from under her hood and Killian doesn’t have to look to know that Milah’s heart has just melted.

“Read your future, kind sir? Pretty lady?” the child asks quietly. “Just two copper pieces.”

“Our future, eh? And how would you know anything about that?” Killian teases, but not unkindly. This has been such a good day and his mood is brilliant.

“Oh, my gramma, she’s… she _was_ a seer.” The girl’s mouth is turning down, trembling, but she pushes on bravely. “I have the Eye, I do, sir. I will tell you. Only two coppers.”

He shakes his head, amused, but Milah is already reaching into her pouch, throwing the lass a silver coin. She can never pass a child in need, and that is yet another thing Killian loves about her.

“Tell him, then,” Milah says with a warm smile at the girl. “Will he be the greatest captain of all?”

The child catches the coin with wide eyes, tucking it under her layers of rags before reaching for Killian’s left hand with her grubby cold paws. He wrinkles his nose as the sticky fingers squeeze his.

“I see… the ocean. And a grand big ship, and gold,” the girl starts, and Killian rolls his eyes because hello, a pirate. Obviously so. But Milah is smiling fondly at his side and if this makes her happy, he’s perfectly fine listening to all kinds of inane rambling by a child looking for better ways to survive than begging.

“So much gold,” the lass continues, her eyes going a little unfocused, no doubt imagining it, and all the things she could do with it. “And, and love, too. A— a dark-haired beauty by your side and—”

Killian grins and winds his free arm around Milah’s waist, stealing a kiss off her smiling lips.

“Tell me something I don’t know, little seer,” he chuckles, and Milah beams at him. Her eyes are sparkling with it, with fondness and joy, and oh, how he loves her. When he looks back at the girl, she’s frowning just a bit. Her small fingers feel freezing against his skin.

“I see a long, happy—”

The frown deepens and her grip is suddenly stronger, like a vice; she gasps a little, pauses. When she picks up, her voice is lower, harsher, not like a child’s at all.

“Long, _long_ life,” she rasps. “Longer than you can imagine in your wildest dreams. And I see blood. Blood and steel. Grief and wrath.”

Killian jerks his hand back, alarmed, but she’s holding on. Her eyes under the oversized hood have gone silver.

“Lonely,” she says, slowly. “So, so lonely. So much pain.”

He manages to rip his hand out of hers at last, and she shudders and stills, looking around with confusion. Her eyes have gone back to muddy brown — if they were ever any other color at all. Already Killian’s brain is trying to rationalize it all.

“Well thank you for such an optimistic outlook,” he snaps, unnerved and unwilling to show how much. Milah turns closer into him, clearly upset. The girl shakes her head frantically.

“I didn’t— I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what—” Her eyes are wide and scared, rapidly filling with tears, and she looks even smaller, huddled up on herself as if expecting a hit. Killian doesn’t have the heart to berate her.

“It’s fine,” he says, even though it isn’t, not really; his superstitious pirate heart is unsettled still. He takes Milah’s hand, his anchor. “Go get yourself something warm to eat, lass. And maybe don’t tell other people such horrors, eh? Some will not hesitate to tan your hide for it.”

He’s a few steps away, hurrying to put the unpleasant experience behind them, when the girl calls after him. “But there is hope, Captain. At the end of that road, there is still hope.”

He turns, throat tightening with anger or fear, he can’t tell, but she’s not there anymore; only the dirty gray edge of her cloak disappearing around a corner. Killian stops and breathes. He’s fine. They are fine. And no amount of a fake seer’s ramblings can change that.

*

“She got you worried, that girl by the tavern,” Milah says later that night. They are in their cabin, out on the open sea again, and she is taking off her clothes, piece by piece, as Killian lounges on their bed, watching with hungry eyes. She smiles and unlaces her blouse, aware how much he loves to see, unashamed to let him watch.

With a view like this, the memory feels irrelevant. Absurd.

“No, love,” he says, and it’s mostly true, right now. “She was just an orphan fishing for some coin, thinking up visions to keep up the fantasy. I am not worried.”

She grins and drops the last piece of clothing over the back of the chair, blows the lamp out before slipping into bed with him, bare like a goddess. “Well, good. Because you do have the ocean and the gold and the love. And I see a long, happy life before you, with your dark-haired beauty at your side, should you so desire.”

“Oh, I do,” Killian growls, rolling into her welcoming embrace. “There is nothing I desire more than that.”

*

The thing is, life _is_ happy. The _Jolly Roger_ is their home, the ocean is favorable, the gold flows easily. Killian and Milah, they have a good thing going — the best thing, better than he’d ever hoped to have with anyone, ever, back before he met her. Life is… kind of perfect. And the more time passes, the less he thinks about the little seer’s ominous words. Two years later, he hardly ever wakes up covered in cold sweat in the dead of the night anymore, after a vivid dream in which he’s losing everything.

And then, Rumplestiltskin saunters back into their lives like a ghost from a long-forgotten past. Only he’s not the lame village coward anymore, begging pitifully at Killian’s feet. He’s power and ruthlessness wrapped in a scaly, shiny exterior, and the minute he sees that smirk, Killian knows that his life is over. He can only hope that it means he is going to die.

But of course, that would be too kind. So instead Milah — his love, his heart, the innocent — dies right before his eyes, and he is left standing there.

With blood and steel.

In grief and wrath that boils his blood.

To face his very long, very lonely life.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

It’s a demanding job, being the captain. He needs to be out there, among his crew — making decisions, navigating, directing this whole well-oiled machine that is a pirate ship and its people. These are dangerous, unknown waters. There is land showing on the horizon — the land that Killian only visited once before, briefly, and whose memory haunts him to this day. That land and its ruler are not to be trifled with — even more so than he personally experienced, if rumors in different ports are to be believed.

So they need him there, his crew. They look up to him, to keep them on course and safe. And so there he is. All day, every day, since they sailed through the portal. Since before, even.

All day, and usually all night, too. Mr. Smee tries to get him to sleep, every now and then, but that is not— just no. He can’t stand being in his cabin, where she _isn’t_. And the few times he’s tried to close his eyes for a bit, all he saw was her, dying. Again and again, life leaving her eyes, her last words, her warmth escaping forever as he held her for the last time. And he can’t bear to see it again. So he just… stays at the helm, where the cold and the wind won’t let him sleep. Where his people need him.

He’s never alone there. Even in the darkest of hours there are always a few of his crew on duty, and it’s both a blessing and a curse, Killian thinks. Blessing, because there are moments, sometimes, when he thinks he might just… step into the depths and let the mermaids have him, if he could get away with it. Anything not to feel anymore — to be with her. He’s not proud of those thoughts. He has a job to do, a revenge to exact, and he can’t do it if he’s dead at the bottom of the sea, but gods, does it _rip_ him apart with every other breath, the certainty that he will never see her again. That he failed to protect her.

And then there are moments when all he wants is to be alone where nobody can see or hear him — an impossible feat in a ship’s close quarters — so that he could really… let himself feel it. Crumble under the grief that’s crushing him, instead of standing proud and tall at the helm. _Howl_ with the pain in his heart and his badly-healing wrist where the severed nerves scream in constant burning agony.

Only if he fell to his knees, he might never get up again. If he started screaming, he thinks he may never stop.

Killian Jones thought he’d known what loss and pain was — he’d certainly had enough of it in his life to not be a stranger to it. But this — this has cut deeper than anything; deeper than he’d imagined anything could. And in the dark, desperate hours in the middle of some nights, he wonders if the happiness he’d had for those few short years was worth the price he’s paying now.

And he knows he will never, ever be foolish enough to open himself up for anything like it again. Ever.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

“Captain, you’re alive!”

Hook jerks and curses, nearly losing hold of the slippery, wet rope ladder in the process. Mr. Smee grabs his arm and helps him the rest of the way aboard. The rain is pouring sideways still and in the pale light of the single lamp the man looks about as soaked as Hook feels, his signature red hat flopping sadly sideways. Still, his face radiates relief.

Hook ineffectually wipes water from his face with his completely wet scarf before giving it up as a bad job.

“Of course I’m alive, Smee. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were gone for over two weeks. Some of the men were worried you may have perished somewhere on that cursed island.”

“I assure you, Pan would have been here to tell you all about it if I had. Probably gloat, too. And as you can see, I am very much alive. Now, must we stand in this damn storm?”

Mr. Smee follows him down below deck and watches as Hook dries his hands on the first piece of cloth he can find before opening his coat and checking that the canvas bag tied to his waist is still dry, if dirty. Satisfied that its contents are safe, Hook nods at the sailor.

“If that’s all, Smee, I would like to change into something that isn’t soaked and get some rest. Sleeping in that bloody forest is far from what I’d call a luxury.” He moves to open the door to his cabin, but the man hurries to ask,

“Did you find it?”

Hook sighs heavily. “Find what, pray tell?”

“The way to escape. To leave this realm for good. That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?”

Ah. The poor bugger. Despite all of his wishes for life eternal, it turned out he was not taking it well, knowing this place will be his home forever. Hook can relate — to a degree.

“Mr. Smee. If there is a way, I am sure we will find it. However, a way home is not what I was looking for at this time.”

“What, then? A weapon? Pan’s weak spot? Something else to defeat him?”

Perhaps it shows just how weary Hook is that he does not snap at his sailor like he normally would. “Not something. Someone. And no, I didn’t find them.”

“What? Who could you— Oh.” His face falls in a disappointed grimace. “It was the boy, wasn’t it? Baelfire. But why—”

This time Hook does snap, voice strained both with the sudden spike of anger and exhaustion born from the weeks of fruitless search. “ _Enough_ with the questioning! I am not obligated to explain myself to you — or anyone else for that matter.” He strides into his cabin and slams the door shut behind him, then leans heavily against it, his hand pressed to his chest where his heart is still beating hollowly, uselessly.

_Why_. Why indeed?

If he’s to be absolutely honest, he doesn’t know why he’s risked all the dangers of the island and Pan’s ire to — what, really? Check on the boy? _Save_ him, when he can’t even save himself and his crew? Try to convince Baelfire once more that his place was on the _Jolly Roger_ , with Hook?

Would he even know what to say to the boy if he found him?

All he’s certain of is that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking of Milah’s son since his short stay on Hook’s ship — couldn’t stop turning the _what ifs_ in his head again and again, and that has been his only ray of hope in the sea of grief and despair of these last — weeks? months? It’s hard to tell in Neverland.

So one morning he just… went.

Much good it did him. He spent days watching Pan’s compound and following the movements of various groups of his Lost Boys, but didn’t see any sign of Baelfire or hear any mention of him. So he proceeded to comb through every hideout he knew on the island instead, covering large swatches of the coast and the jungle. There was nothing.

Until this morning, when he found the canvas bag — Baelfire’s bag, the one he’d left the ship with — abandoned in a tangle of underbrush. Everything he’d packed was still there — his clothes and belt, the little knife that Hook gave him when he refused to take the cutlass, flint and steel — everything but the precious drawing of Milah that the boy had taken from his desk. But what scared Hook most — what made his heart fall — were the splatters of blood covering the majority of the bag.

He didn’t find the body, though he looked — but then, he wouldn’t. Pan’s band does not leave their dead lying around. But even without the final proof, Hook knows the truth.

Standing in his cabin now, dripping icy water all over the floor, he closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, feeling the last of light and hope evaporate, his heart growing heavy and harder still.

Another soul lost.

Another failure to pay for.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

Killian has never been a stranger to nightmares. Even as a child, after his mother’s death, he often woke up in tears in the middle of the night and sought solace from his father or Liam. Later, when his father was no longer in the picture and Liam was too grown up to bother him with such childish problems, Killian learned to stifle his cries and swallow his tears, and it wasn’t long before he discovered — with the help of one of the sailors, who found it hilarious — the “medicinal” use of liquor as a remedy on the worst nights. As an adult he still relied on rum to numb his brain sometimes, in order to get some rest.

The nightmares have only gotten worse in Neverland. He has more material to feed them now, certainly, but it’s not just that. There is something about this realm… Perhaps it has something to do with how strange and wobbly time is here. With clocks and watches not working and seasons never changing, it’s hard to measure the passage of time. Even watching the sky doesn’t help, as the moon appears to skip phases sometimes, or stays in one for days only to change in the opposite direction to what is natural. Days seem to last forever or pass in a blink. It drives Hook crazy.

And it’s only getting worse the longer they stay here.

He can’t really remember last having a good dream. He knows they can be good. Peaceful. Restful even. He remembers that fact like a vague detail from a long-forgotten story somebody told him as a child. But his dreams haven’t been restful in— forever. Since before. Before he lost— Milah. His hand. His dignity, his future, his everything.

These days, for as long as he can remember, dreams are only a dreaded side effect of the necessity to rest. The best he can hope for is a few hours of sleep with no dreams at all. Or forgetting everything upon waking up, other than a sense of dread and loss. Those are the kind nights, which mostly happen when he and his crew travel to various places on some mission for Pan or another — a hard-earned privilege and one they all appreciate. In the vicinity of the island the only choice there is is between his regular menu of horrors ( _Milah dying in his arms — Baelfire’s “All you care about is yourself” — Liam drawing his last breath — his father — his hand — the Dark One’s giggle — blood and steel and hatred_ ) and the special “treats” that make Hook wish he could never sleep again.

He may not know what it is about this place, why it seeps poison into people’s dream realms, but he knows he’s not the only one. He’s heard Pan’s Lost Boys cry and scream in their sleep, has seen his own crew — hardened, brave sailors each and every one of them — haunted with what they’d seen in their night hours. He’s seen them try to ward off sleep after jerking awake with strangled cries.

He’s lost several to madness or despair. No more than a week ago Sanchez — big as a house, always the first to battle and the best damn cook on this whole damn ship — ran full-speed into the dreamshade tangle, screaming about sea snakes. He was dead before Hook even reached him. Getting him out of those brambles to give him a proper pirate burial at sea took them half a day.

And the worst part is, Hook understands him. If not for his mission, his single-minded desire to kill Rumplestiltskin with his own hands — well, his hand and his hook — he might be tempted to do the same. That’s how bad the dreams are, here. Instead, he’s taken to looking for ways to limit his time spent asleep. Or otherwise, to knock himself out hard enough not to dream at all. Because Pan has been keeping them close by more and more lately, watching with rising glee as they start to crumble and crack at the seams. Because he can’t— _He can’t_.

And so he wanders the island at night, gathering plants and making concoctions, trying them out from the weakest concentrations up, testing the effects of cold, of pain, of activity on the necessity for sleep. So far he’s gathered a neat little store of poisons of different potency and learned that his body can withstand more than he’s ever expected.

But it can’t live without sleep.

So here he is again, paralyzed and falling, helpless to watch the Dark One with Milah, doing more than merely crush her heart — torturing her to death in front of Hook’s very eyes, and all the while she is looking at him, eyes glassy with pain but full of accusation, and her every breath is like a scream, _This is your doing. You did this. You couldn’t even protect me —_ and Hook can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do _anything_ but watch as the last breath leaves her body and she crumples, broken — and there is Baelfire, watching, screaming for her, screaming how Hook should die instead because it’s _his fault_ and _he did this_ and _he will never change_. And then— then he’s falling further, only stopping to face those he fought with; those he killed. Only to kill them again, and feel their blood on his hands — both hands — and every single one of them has Milah’s face and her accusing eyes and he can feel it, his heart falling further, turning to a cinder, to a piece of burnt coal, to ash, and all the while Baelfire’s voice screams in his ears how it’s _his fault his fault HIS FAULT_ —

Hook wakes up with a cry and a thump, having rolled off his bed, tangled in a blanket. Tears are flowing down his face and his shirt is dripping where he’s sweated right through. His hook is a bundle of agony where his hand isn’t, the worst since those first few months when his wrist was slow to heal and the severed nerves screamed with burning pain without a moment’s relief.

He’s a mess.

And Pan is perched on the edge of his table, a picture of nonchalance, grinning his face off.

Hook scrambles to sit up and jerk the tattered blanket higher. He’s fully dressed — he never sleeps less than fully dressed anymore; there’ve been too many nighttime emergencies, real or otherwise — but he always feels the need to cover up more when Pan is around. That damn demon child makes him much too vulnerable just sitting there.

“Aw, that looked intense.” Said demon child laughs and leans forward, the picture of comfortable nonchalance. “Do you have trouble sleeping, Killian?” he asks innocently, and Hook shudders. No one calls him by that name anymore. Not one of those who used to is alive anymore. Hearing it from Pan is like salt in those wounds.

“What are you doing here?” he rasps in a way that tells him he’s probably screamed in his sleep. “We talked about this. This is my ship, you can’t—”

“This is _my_ island and yes, I can. Now, is that any way to greet an old friend? An old friend bearing gifts, at that?”

“Gifts. You.” Hook gets to his — still slightly shaky — feet, feeling minutely better once he can meet Pan’s eyes like equals. He drops the blanket on the bed, reluctant, and immediately crosses his arms over his chest.

“Surely you didn’t forget the concept of gifts?” Pan teases.

“Why would you give me anything?”

“Why for the anniversary, of course!”

“The anniversary.” Hook repeats, feeling numb. “Anniversary of what, pray tell?”

“Of your arriving in Neverland, obviously! It’s been a hundred years to the day, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

 _A hundred_ — Hook’s knees nearly buckle; he has to lock them to stay still. “No. You’re lying.” He’s stopped trying to count a long, long time ago and yes, it feels like forever — but surely it isn’t— It can’t be. Not that long.

Pan pouts. “Why would I be lying? And, more importantly, why would I go to all the trouble of bringing these as a present for you, otherwise?” He opens his hand. There, on a piece of once-white cloth, lie a dozen or so of dried berries, frosted pink in color and entirely unfamiliar. Hook has thought he knows all the fruit-bearing plants of Neverland by now, after all of those years of wandering and experimenting.

_A hundred years._

_Impossible._

_Or is it?_

“What are they?”

Pan touches one of the little berries with his long finger. “Oh, they are possibly the most precious plant on this island. At least since I destroyed all but one little bush decades ago.”

“Why?”

“They were just no fun, Killian. My boys liked them too much. And they brought something I could never allow to grow here.” He frowns and spits the last word like poison. “Hope.”

He jumps off the table and takes three long steps closer, and Hook has to grit his teeth and dig the end of his hook in his thigh to remind himself to hold his ground. But Pan just stops and extends his hand to him.

“Here. Take those. And don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Hook forces himself to move; he gathers the cloth with the fruit from Pan’s hand. It feels oddly heavy.

“What do they do?”

“What, no ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you. What do they do?”

“My Lost Boys called them ‘the fruit of peaceful dreams’. Looks like something you could use right about now. You look… tired.”

That — feels absolutely perfect. It’s also most likely a vicious lie.

“How do I know it’s not poison?” Hook asks, voice harsh with a wave of deep longing at the mere thought of a peaceful night.

Pan laughs, manic and loud. “How _do_ you know indeed. I guess you won’t know until you try, will you?” He turns and struts to the door — the door that was locked from the inside a few hours ago — with a cheerful, “Happy anniversary, Killian! It’s been so good to have you here. Here’s to many happy returns, I’m sure.”

And with that, he’s gone, and Hook finally lets his legs unlock and drops to the tangled bed, breathing heavily, the berries still held gently in his hand. It’s— too much, suddenly. The nightmare, the realization it may have been a century here, the hope that is likely a trap just because Pan _knows_ his most desperate needs. It’s— it’s too much. He needs to— stop. Not think, not feel, not dream, not _be_ right now and yet he can’t because he has to— he has to—

He has something to do. But not now. Not like this.

The world feels heavy on his shoulders as Hook struggles to his feet and stumbles to his sea chest for the last bottle of rum he’s saved. He deposits the little bundle of — hope? danger? _confusion_ — in there; he can’t think about it right now. And then he locks his door again and proceeds to drink himself into oblivion.

* * *

**Image** : precious berries | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

Over the next week, Hook has taken to carrying the little cloth bundle with the berries with him at all times as he wanders the island alone. They are still at anchor, no new missions in sight, and so there is nothing much to do. The Jolly is kept perfectly clean and tidy on the daily basis by his crew — what’s left of it — who are just as eager to find little tasks to occupy their time. Nothing needs repairing or maintenance. Walking around kills the time and helps with staving off sleep a little longer. Then another bit. And another. But there’s only so far that he can push that limit. He’s only really slept twice in the last week, and once was the dreamless drunken stupor the night after Pan’s visit.

The other time he spent the night being forced to choose between Milah, Liam and Baelfire, and then made to carve the one he chose with his hook, bit by little bit, to some faceless voice’s specific instructions. (He won’t think about his choice. He won’t. He _can’t_.).

He only managed to wake up after it was all done, and the _thing_ strung out on the deck of his ship looked nothing like a human being.

He threw up for a long time after he awoke.

But now he can’t fight the exhaustion much longer, and he’s sitting on the sand in a quiet little bay, back against a fallen tree, weighing the berries in his hand and trying hard to remember why he’s resisting at all.

If they could give him just one night of peaceful rest—

_But Pan brought them. He never does anything out of the goodness of his heart._

Why would Pan try to poison him though? He needs Hook. He wouldn’t want to kill him.

_There are worse things to do to a person than kill them, and Pan knows them better than anyone._

Worse than going insane from sleep deprivation? Or from the nightmares that haunt him every night?

Fuck it. He just needs—

“Don’t do it, Captain,” says a voice to his right, quiet and young, and Hook almost takes his eye out with his own, well, hook. The berries scatter around in the sand and he swears and scrambles to find them in the moonlight, heart pounding in his throat at the thought of losing them. Once he has them all, he deposits them gently in their cloth bundle and puts that in the pocket of his overcoat. Only then does his heart slow down and he finally turns to see which of Pan’s brats has found him in his favorite hideaway.

Only it’s not a Lost Boy.

“ _You_ ,” he growls, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to attack. Which is absurd, because it’s just a girl. A young girl of no more than ten. With a hood over her black hair and a vivid red birthmark surrounding one of her eyes.

 _Her_. The lass who started this whole streak of misery for him. The _seer_ who ruined it all. Who cost him _everything_. Oh, how many times he’s fantasized — furious, despairing, vindictive — what he would do if he could go back in time and see her again. Or push those words back into her throat. Make her never, ever say them.

And how cruel is it that he can still see her face perfectly when the faces of everyone else — of all those he’s held dearest — have faded from his memory? When the only times he sees them clearly anymore is in those worst nightmares, broken and bloody, and he can’t even say if he’s remembering right?

“Yes, me,” the girl says, calm and unbothered, sitting cross-legged on the sand and facing him, as if she wasn’t in a very real danger of being impaled on a freshly sharpened hook. ( _Blood and steel, blood and steel…_ ). “Welcome again, Captain.”

That makes him pause and take a breath — that unnatural calm. His exhaustion-muddled brain takes a moment to catch on, but then it’s obvious: she’s not really here, no matter what his eyes want him to believe. The only question that remains is: is it Pan playing one of his mind games — that would be hardly the first time and not nearly the most cruel — or has Hook finally reached the point of breaking and started seeing things that weren’t there?

He stares at the seer and he could laugh, now that he’s seeing her without the red-tinged film of fury. She looks exactly like she did all those years ago, down to the tattered cloak and the dirt smudged over her face. He could bet if he searched her, he would find a silver coin hidden away under the cloak somewhere.

If he could even search her. She’s probably intangible.

“So,” he says once the rush of adrenaline has gone down a little. “I shouldn’t eat those berries, you say? And why is that? I was told they could grant me a peaceful sleep for once.”

(And if it isn’t Pan, then isn’t it hilarious, talking to his own hallucination?)

The girl nods earnestly. “They would. Each one could give you up to an hour of dreamless sleep.”

He’s got thirteen. That could mean — four? Maybe up to five periods of sleep without the nightmares? Multiple short pieces of actual rest. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for that. If only that were true—

“Then why would I not eat them?”

“Because they would also get you addicted. A dose or two and you would never stop begging for more.” She pauses, looking at him placidly, waiting for him to draw his own conclusions.

“And apparently there is only one bush left here,” he finishes, deflating.

“There is only one bush left _anywhere_. These berries only grow here, in Neverland. And the last, very limited supply is in Peter Pan’s possession.” She tilts her head and her expression looks like pity. “A few moments of relief are not worth turning your nightly nightmares into daily hallucinations, Captain.”

Hook blanches at the thought. It does make sense, though — he can see how getting him addicted could work to Pan’s benefit. That would be the easiest way for him to control Hook and get him to stay forever; to stop him from looking for ways to leave. He shudders just thinking about it.

Except, why would he believe this… manifestation?

“How do I know you’re not Pan, trying to confuse me?”

The girl smiles slightly. “What would Pan have to gain from warning you against his own plans? I’m not him. And I am not a hallucination either.”

“I bet a hallucination would say that,” he mumbles under his breath, then shakes his head and looks defiantly at the girl. “What are you then? Or who?”

She makes a complicated hand gesture that seems to encompass her whole body. “I am exactly the person you see.”

“No,” Hook spits out, angry again. “Stop playing games with my head. I don’t know how much time has passed exactly but I know it was a lot. There is no way you are that child anymore, it’s just some trick, and I am _done—_ ”

“You’re right, Captain. I am not a child anymore. You merely see me as one because that was my only form you’ve ever seen, and so that is the form your brain can give to the image.” She smiles, but her eyes look sad now. Tired. “Time did pass. Out there, in our realm, I am a very old woman now, with children of my own. In fact, with grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and even a couple of great-great-grandchildren that my family doesn’t know about yet. It has been over a hundred years since we met, that first time, and I am ready to go. But I had to do this one last thing first. Deal with an unfinished business before I could move on to the afterlife.”

The laugh that rips out of Hook’s chest is rough and bitter. “Haven’t you done enough? Or do you have any more curses you need to grace me with? You needn’t have bothered. I don’t have much else to take away.”

“I never cursed you, Captain. I merely spoke of what I saw of your future.”

“Well, I never asked you to! You were supposed to be an orphan in need of some coin, I thought you’d just… spew some nonsense and let us laugh and feel good about helping out a brat in need, not, not—” His voice breaks. It’s astounding how fresh and bright that anger feels still, even when most everything else has been weathered by time and toil.

“I _was_ an orphan in need, hungry and grieving, ready to spew _a lot_ of nonsense just for a chance of earning a few coins for a bite to eat.” She’s still speaking softly. “As fate had it, though, I was also a child of a long-muddled seer line. A child who unexpectedly got her first clear vision while holding your hand, Captain. And handled it badly, because nobody had ever prepared her for it. And for that, I apologize.” She raises her hand and puts it briefly on his arm. He can feel it, the weight of it, even if the leather keeps him from feeling its temperature. “I am sorry, Captain. I know you never asked for a real vision. And I’ve lived my whole very long life since aware of the disservice I’ve done you — not just by giving you the prophesy you didn’t ask for.”

She pauses and holds his gaze, expression much too grave for such a young face. Hook finds himself holding his breath, and lets it out on a word. “But?”

“But by giving it to you incomplete.”

It’s not what he’s expecting — nothing that’s happening right now is a thing he would ever think to expect and he’s not even sure he believes any of what his senses claim is true, but Hook can’t help himself as he asks, “What do you mean, incomplete?”

“Do you remember what I told you, Captain? Back then, at the end of our encounter?”

“Which part? Blood, steel, grief, wrath? Loneliness and pain? It’s not like I had much opportunity to forget.” In fact, he remembers every word, every detail. It’s burned into his memory like a brand, there to stay forever.

“No, not any of these. There was one more thing.” When Hook just looks at her, frowning, she tilts her head. “Hope, Captain. I told you that there is hope at the end of that road.”

He laughs. He can’t help it, the laugh rips out of his chest, sounding mad and hoarse, leaving his throat sore with it. The seer only waits with a politely neutral expression. Once he wipes his streaming eyes with his sleeve and the last chuckles subside, sounding disturbingly like sobs, Hook clears his throat, wishing he had any more rum to rinse it with.

“The only hope there is out there for me,” he says hoarsely, “is that I can find and kill that crocodile that took my love from me. Nothing else matters. Can you promise me that? Do you see it with that mystical Eye of yours?”

She only smiles as if _he’s_ a child. “The future is not a straight line, Captain. There are things that are set, that all the roads lead to, and then there are those that depend on our actions and the choices we make on the way. I cannot tell you if you complete your revenge.” When Hook huffs, annoyed at the non-answer, she raises her hand. “What I _can_ tell you is this: The road I saw unrolling before you was a hard one. A long, lonely, painful path. It was the darkness of that vision that overwhelmed me as a child. But what I failed to tell you — and had a lifetime to remember and process since — was that after all that darkness, I saw _light_. A brilliant, dazzling light. I saw options and choices and decisions that could lead you to a future that is better than you could ever imagine. There is still hope for happiness for you.”

Hook’s throat is painfully tight when he says, “I don’t have any hope left. There is nothing good in my future—”

“But there is. There _can_ be. I saw you facing choices, time and again — choices between your own gain and other people’s needs, between anger and compassion, hatred and love. And I cannot see which ways you will choose at any point. But I see the consequences. For you. For countless others. Maybe for the whole world, Captain. Your choices, they may directly affect the fate of our world.”

He can just shake his head. This is — beyond absurd. If he believed for a moment that she is what she says she is, he has no doubts now — he’s going mad. Well and truly insane. His brain — some part of his brain that appears to possess delusions of grandeur — is spewing things that are truly ridiculous and he can only listen in disbelief as the child-faced vision continues.

“I see worlds where you burn in the cold fire of your vengeance, Captain. Where you die alone at the end of the world, where you reach the goal that fed you for centuries and are left with nothing to fill the rest of your life. But I also see futures where you change your path. I see versions of your life filled with hope and joy. With love.”

Bile burns bitter at the back of Hook’s throat and he has to swallow down the wave of nausea.

“No,” he rasps, and his voice sounds as dead as his heart feels. “You do not get to talk to me about love. Not after— No. I had love. It is gone.”

“And yet—”

“ _No_.”

“Fine. It is not my job to convince you to do anything,” the seer sighs. “The choices are all yours. I only want to make you aware that you _have_ choices out there, before you. That your path is not a straight one. You can be a villain or a hero. Be alone or surrounded by those who care about you. You can choose anger and hatred or open yourself to hope and its consequences.”

He snorts humorlessly. “Right. So what, if I make good choices, let go of my quest for vengeance, then my life will suddenly be easy bliss and happily ever afters? That’s nonsense.”

She shakes her head sadly. “No, Captain. Do not get me wrong. Even if you make all the right choices — even if you become a hero, there is no guarantee — no certainty of a happily ever after. And I’m sorry, but I don’t see a version of your life that is easy. I am merely saying that there is hope, for you and the rest of the world. There is a chance.”

* * *

**Image** : silver-eyed seer | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

There is something in the way she speaks, the way her eyes get silvery in the glint of the full moon, that wraps around Hook like a spell — he realizes he’s leaning closer to hear her words, imagining what she’s saying, almost. All the useless, empty promises.

That is not his world. His world is pain and loneliness and never-ending desire for revenge. There is no future there, nothing to choose or hope for. Just cold steel and the certainty that when he dies, he will have done absolutely everything in his power to take the Dark One along with him. No matter what.

The only hope and love he had is in his past. With Milah.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says coldly, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t care. I’ve made my choices, and nothing is going to change them.”

“Very well, Captain.” She gets to her feet; takes a step toward him. Even standing over him, she’s hardly taller than he is sitting. “I’ve done my part. The rest is up to you. But let me leave you with a parting gift.” She reaches out and before he can react, trails her ice-cold fingers over his forehead. Just a light touch, barely there, but his skin tingles strangely in its wake, his head buzzes.

“What did you do?” he snaps, anger and panic and _exhaustion_ , and she just smiles.

“I gave you something to feed the hope. You will need it.” With a parting nod, she turns away. “Goodbye Captain. And good luck.”

“Wait!”

He hasn’t thought about it until now but he has to know — if it’s the last chance to ask the question, he _needs to know_. She looks at him over her shoulder and he can see she’s gone a little translucent already. If he wants to ask, he needs to do it now, though he doesn’t know how— what exactly—

She smiles. “Yes, it would have happened anyway.”

“How did you— Okay, seer, I get it. But — you said it yourself. There are choices. Crossroads. What if—”

“There are also fixed points in time, Captain. Your duel with the Dark One was one of them from the moment you accepted his wife onto your ship and into your heart. No matter what, you were always going to lose her. And your hand. You were always going to get your heart broken that way. Nothing you’d have done could have changed that. Stop blaming yourself.”

And with that, she disappears — melts away into the moonlight, and Hook sits there, shellshocked, in the suddenly quiet night that feels much, much colder than it did a moment ago.

Finally, he struggles to his feet, feeling strange and foreign, as if separated from himself, and makes his way back to the _Jolly Roger_ , moving like the old man he is. Back in his cabin, he takes out the bundle of berries and throws it into the chest. He has no energy to think about them now. He’s barely conscious with exhaustion that weighs down his bones and fills his head with wool. And for all that the seer — the vision or hallucination or whatever it was — said, he has no choices. He will sleep because he can’t not. He will dream and suffer through every minute of it, because that is what life has in store for him. Then he will wake up and struggle through more pointless days, wading through the weariness that comes with insufficient rest and pointless existence, entertaining himself with fantasies about his revenge. Rinse and repeat. Forever.

Hope, indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

“You never used my gift.”

Pan is sitting on Hook’s table again when he wakes up, and that makes him angrier than it did the last time that happened. Maybe because he’s more awake this time.

“How do you know?” he asks, sitting up.

Pan shrugs. “Just a feeling? And you never came to me to… talk about it.”

To ask for more, more like it. Hook congratulates himself on going with his instincts and resisting the temptation. “Well. I decided it was prudent not to ingest fruit I didn’t know.”

He can see Pan seething quietly, is the thing. His face doesn’t change, still full of the smirking politeness, but the muscle in his jaw is twitching nervously.

“Killian. You are far too suspicious. I was only trying to help.”

“Thanks. But I’m okay, really.”

And the strange thing is, he is.

He didn’t really notice it at first. They were back to running missions for Pan, one after another — a little murder here, a spot of pillaging there, with some lovely kidnappings in between — and the relief of having something to do in combination with leaving Neverland for weeks at a time, sailing to places where liquor was freely available, meant that it was months before he realized: His dreams — they are… different.

Oh, they still hurt. There is still something awful waiting for him half the time he closes his eyes for a few hours, but it is just that — _half_ the time. Some nights, even in Neverland, he doesn’t seem to dream at all — or else doesn’t remember anything when he wakes up. And sometimes when he does dream, in those most horrible moments, the dream just… stops. He can’t really say how, or what happens. Just that, sometimes, in the middle of some dream torture everything goes dark and quiet, as if somebody blew out a candle, and he gets a bit of rest after that. Sometimes he thinks of the seer (that he’s still uncertain he really saw) touching his forehead, almost feels her tingling touch, and wonders if this is her doing, that easing of nightmares. She did say she was giving him something to feed hope, didn’t she? And while he still can’t see himself hoping for anything other than surviving long enough to get a shot at his revenge, it’s still something.

Most of the time, though, he doesn’t think about that at all.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he pulls on his boots, reaches for his waistcoat, and buttons it up, smirking; knowing that Pan is watching. When he looks up, Pan’s lips are a tight, thin line — but he catches himself quickly, and his signature jovial smile spreads over his face, as always not reaching the eyes. “You do look better. I am glad to see that.”

He’s not, though. He really isn’t, and that makes Hook happier than ever that he didn’t try those berries. They are gone now, down at the bottom of the ocean, and as hard as it was at that time, he is glad he resisted. Whether the seer was an actual vision or just a hallucination, it looks like she steered him right. His mind is clear enough to plan and plot for the first time in years, and he _will_ find a way to leave this cursed realm for good now, even if it takes him decades.

And if he can take this demon child down while doing it, all the better.

“So, did you have another mission for us?” Hook says, stretching leisurely. It makes all the difference in the world, being actually rested for once. It still annoys him to no end that Pan just appears in his cabin, but now he has no trouble glossing over it, playing it the way he knows will infuriate Pan most.

Sure enough, Pan’s fey features tighten in a grimace before he schools it into a polite mask.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I do. You see, there is a man in the land known as Arendelle that is really starting to get on my nerves…”


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

The shore is _right there_. So, so close. A child could reach it within minutes.

If the child wasn’t rapidly losing feeling in their limbs. And bleeding profusely. Into shark-infested waters.

 _One last mission_ , Pan said. _If you succeed, I will let you and your crew leave for good._

That should have been a warning. Ah, hell. Even if he’d known, Hook would have gone. Get his freedom or die trying.

Looks like it’s gonna be the latter.

The water feels colder than it should. His clothes are heavy, weighing him down. He is still struggling against the waves, still holding his head above water, but his movements are sluggish and disjointed, and he’s losing his breath. Isn’t sure if he’s not losing time between breaths, too, because he’s choking on water he doesn’t remember inhaling and— This is bad. He learned to swim before he knew how to walk, if that ability is leaving him now, it must be worse than he thought.

He may not reach that shore after all.

He’s always prided himself on being a survivor, but it doesn’t seem so important anymore. Nothing does. Why is he even fighting it? Maybe if he lets go, those triangular fins he saw menacing in the distance won’t get to him while he can still feel. Everything hurts enough as it is. He just needs to… rest. It’s so nice to just… stop… struggling.

The water feels warm now. His mind is going blank. The pain is fading.

 _No_.

It’s sharp and loud and _right in his head_ , and Hook jerks in the water, flailing himself back to the surface and gasping for air, the water blinding him.

 _Do not give up. You can do it. You are so close_.

But he _wants_ to give up. It’s too hard, too much. Everything _hurts_ and he can’t tell where up or down is, let alone which way to the shore. He can’t open his eyes, stinging and too heavy.

And why? Why shouldn’t he give up? There is nothing holding him here.

The water is nice and warm, covering his face.

_Killian, please. Please, try._

He doesn’t know this voice. Hell, it’s not even a voice, just a… loud thought. And probably a sign his brain is dying. But it’s saying his _name_ , his real name, and it sounds urgent and… worried, and somehow, somewhere, his body must have decided that it’s important to soothe that voice, because it’s found some last bit of strength somehow, the very last shreds, and his limbs are moving even though it’s agony and pointless — he’s moving, gasping for breath, blinking back water.

 _Yes_ , the voice croons in his head. _You are doing so well. You’re almost there. Just a little bit more, Killian, and then you can rest._

He does try. To his very last drop of strength. And then a little bit further. His lungs burning, filled with water. His whole body screaming. His vision nothing but black spots.

Until he can’t try any longer.

And then a wave gives him a little push and his knees hit the sand. Then his palm. The water is shallow here, and he drops to his stomach — _Yes, you did it! You are amazing!_ — and crawls the last few feet, just far enough to—

*

When he tries to open his eyes the next time, he is lying face down in wet sand, and he immediately wishes he was not conscious. There is an onslaught of sensations, each worse than the next. Pain and thirst and heat are the three that come to the forefront, but there is a thought on a loop, ringing in his head like a bird that got itself caught in a massive bell and is driving itself crazy, frantically trying to find a way out. He focuses with immense effort.

Wet sand. No water covering his legs anymore. The sun high on the sky — much higher than when he fought his battle at dawn.

_Low tide._

Right. He needs to move away from the sea.

It takes three tries to shift forward even a few inches, and he would scream with the agony of it if his throat wasn’t too parched to produce sound. But he does move. Digs his hook into the packed sand and pulls himself painfully forward. And then a little bit more. And more.

By the time he passes out again, he doesn’t even care if the sea comes and claims him.

*

 _Killian_.

No. He’s not doing it. Whatever it is. He can’t.

_Killian, you need to get to the shade. Get out of the sun._

No. There is no way. His head is killing him. His whole body is one giant bruise. The heat is overwhelming and there is not a drop of moisture in him and— No. He can’t possibly move an inch.

_It’s just a few more yards. Look, it’s right before you._

No.

_Come on, look. See those trees? It will be nice and cool there. And there’s a little pool of fresh water. You can drink and rest._

He doesn’t care. He just wants to… not move. Not feel. Not _be_.

_There will be time for not being, but it is not this time. Come on, up you go. You are a goddamn survivor. You can do this._

The voice is no longer soft and soothing now, turning into a firm command instead, and somehow, that helps. It reminds him of something — someone… But thoughts skitter away before he can form them, leaving his head pounding harder than before. And so he stops thinking and just… follows orders. Teeth clenched, he forces his limbs to move and _crawls_. Eyes squeezed shut against the light, no thought in his splitting head other than that voice — cheering him on. Directing him. Taking control. He is nothing but a puppet, painfully struggling through an eternity and a half, fully aware that it will never end and he will die trying but—

The ground changes under his palms and the air is cooler against his skin, and then the voice says,

_Here._

And he drops face-first to the ground which is — cool, and moist, and then his fingers dip into something wet and he opens his eyes a crack and — yes. It’s a pool of clear water, right by his parched lips, and he makes the very last effort to pull himself close enough to reach.

It’s the best thing he’s tasted in his entire life.

*

The next time Killian wakes, it’s different. There is no sense of urgency, nothing jerking him from the abyss of unconsciousness into the world of pain and no hope. Instead, he’s floating gently, trying to determine where — and how — he is. He’s still aching, but it’s dull and faraway, and there’s a sense of calm enveloping his mind.

And then he realizes there’s a hand stroking gently through his hair. That’s enough to make him brave opening his eyes.

This is not a forest, or an ocean shore. He can’t say where he is, but it’s indoors, and the light is muted enough not to bother his head or eyes. It’s cool here, but not cold, with a gentle breeze coming through sheer curtains. Outside, dusk is falling. He’s lying on something soft, curled up on his uninjured side, and his head is resting in someone’s lap. Someone whose fingers are carding through his hair in the most soothing manner he’s felt in… just about two centuries, if his calculations were right.

His breath hitches — there has only ever been one person in his adult life who touched him with such tender affection and it _can’t be_ but—

“No, don’t move,” the voice says when he tries to roll over, above him now instead of inside his head. “Just rest. You got really battered up out there.”

It is definitely a woman’s voice, though it sounds strange — as if it’s coming with an echo. It isn’t like any voice he’s heard before. Or maybe he just thinks so. Maybe his head is still not right with the beating he’s taken and the sun and—

Maybe he really needs to rest.

It’s easy to slip back into sleep.

*

He dreams of pain. Of lying on the forest floor, nearly delirious with how badly everything hurts, overheating and struggling with his heavy coat that does not want to get off his shoulder, its sleeve tangled in his hook. All his nerves seem to be on fire and that must be the beast’s toxin — it got him with one of the stingers, he remembers. He’d heard tales, whispered in terror at the port taverns, of the slow, painful death awaiting those unlucky enough to get as much as scratched by those.

With a pained cry, he manages to push the sleeve off at last and flops onto his back, breathing heavily for long minutes as he looks at the thick tree canopy above. Hells, but he’s a sitting duck here. Should any enemy or wild animal stumble upon him, he would be such easy prey now. His hand is shaking so hard he would never be able to hold his cutlass, even if he had it.

At least he has water. Turning to his side with a groan, he leans to drink again, and then scoops a handful to splash over his face and his overheated forehead. It stings as all the little cuts and abrasions flare to life for a moment, but then feel significantly better at once. So he does it again — scoops water over his neck and his aching chest, pours handfuls over the front of his linen shirt to cool off further. Then, hesitant, reaches to where he knows his thigh has been ripped open by the thing’s claws. It was bleeding copiously before he fell into the water and he’s almost afraid to know the damage. But he has to. It hasn’t killed him, so chances are the bleeding has slowed, and he has to know.

The leather of his trousers is shredded over his right thigh, and so is the flesh underneath, a wide, deep swatch of mangled skin and muscle. Hook can taste bile at the back of his throat when his fingers dip too far into the slick, sticky, gritty mess, sending a nauseating wave of agony up to his hip. There’s sand packed all up in the wound. Probably some other debris, as well, and if that is not the best way to die of infection, he doesn’t know what is. Hells, if he had his rum at hand.

Ah, whom is he kidding. He would probably rather drink it if he did.

Well, there’s nothing to it — he only has water, and that is better than nothing. Scooping some more of it with his unsteady hand, he tries to pour it over his thigh — missing it the first time because he’s definitely not up to sitting, not anytime soon. The second time, he loses most of the water as he transfers it, and it’s only on the third try that a decent amount splashes over the tragedy that is his leg and—

He screams himself awake.

*

“Shhh, it’s okay.” It’s that voice again, still strange but familiar now in its strangeness, and everything in Killian relaxes a notch immediately.

They must have relocated somehow while he slept because while he is still lying curled up on his left side with his head in the woman’s lap, he is now facing her instead of away, his face tucked into the soft fabric of her shirt. He would move but he can’t, too tired and too content all at once. Her hand is still in his hair, resting there gently, and the other is stroking, barely there, over his back. It’s still so nice, but—

The room is freezing — or maybe he is? It’s hard to tell and he shivers violently, all of his muscles tensing painfully again. Only his head feels hot — too hot, heavy and floaty and—

Oh no. It feels like a fever and that is never a good sign. Or maybe it’s just a carryover from the dream, maybe he’s not quite awake yet and everything will be okay. Here. With this woman who can only be one person in the world. Who doesn’t sound or feel familiar but truth be told, after so many years Killian has mere shadows of her memories. But that affection, that tenderness as she smooths her wonderfully cool hand over his burning forehead and wraps a soft blanket over his shivering body — that he has only ever known from her.

And yes, he thought she was dead, but he has seen stranger things happen than people turning out to be alive after all. She must have survived somehow, must have waited for him all this time, and found him at last.

“Milah,” he breathes, and the hand pauses, only a thumb moving softly along his cheekbone.

“No,” she says, and it sounds like an apology. “She’s not here, Killian. I’m sorry.”

“Then who—” He turns his head slightly, rolls away enough to look up but the room is dark now and all he sees is a silhouette. Long hair falling over a shoulder. A shadow of a smile. She gathers him back closer.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you.”

“Oh.”

“You should rest some more. Your body needs sleep to heal.”

And the thing is, his eyes are heavy and his thoughts muddled, but he’s warm now, and she’s not Milah, but she’s here and he doesn’t understand any of it.

“Can you… talk to me?” he asks, eyes sliding closed.

“I— sure. What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything. Just — talk. It’s nice. Your voice.”

She laughs softly and it’s a lovely sound. “Okay. Um. So. It was nice outside today. One of those beautiful fall days that feel almost like the summer, only not as hot. It’s my birthday soon. I’ve been thinking how to celebrate. Some vacation would be nice. Just a few days away from the city—”

She speaks quietly, more a background noise than anything, and it’s nice and soothing, but soon Killian’s eyes close entirely and he feels himself float away on the tide of exhaustion (and maybe fever). Not entirely — not enough to fall into deep sleep. He still hears her voice as he ebbs and flows, the melody of it, a sentence registering clearly here and there, but mostly just background music. Her hands keep touching him — his head, his back and shoulder, slow and careful and warm, like they’re focusing all that’s good and right in the world, right there, soothing and gentling until he does fall into deep sleep.

*

He dreams of the forest again.

It’s barely after dawn, he can see the rising sun from his nest at the edge of the tree line. He’s shivering violently under the cover of his coat — not much in the heating department, the leather — and he doesn’t need to guess now to know he does have a fever. He can feel it all over — in the chills and the sweats, his muddled thoughts and weakness, and with a brief flash of humor he wonders: what is doing him in? Is it the toxin? The sunstroke? Any of the cuts and wounds he’s gained in his last heroic battle with the wild bastard of a monster that by all accounts should not even exist outside of stories?

Ha. Like it matters. It’s not like anyone will be giving a eulogy or even writing anything on his grave. _Here lies Captain Hook, perished from a serious case of bullheadedness._ Or, no. _Killed by a particularly ugly sea monster._ Or maybe _Forever chasing his revenge._

Oh, but that sounds pathetic.

He’d shake his head but it hurts, and time seems a little wonky. He blinks and the sun looks much higher in the sky. That is — actually fairly common in dreams, and he knows he’s dreaming, has that awareness in the back of his head all along. He only wishes this dream was a spot less realistic. The pain and the assorted side attractions? He could truly do without those. It’s a whole process today just to get the water, and seriously, he’ll take the wake-up now, please and thank you.

Only he closes his eyes and opens them, and the only things that change are the position of the sun on the sky and the growing awareness that he’s getting worse. By the evening he’s getting out of breath and the pulsing pain in his shredded thigh is unbearable, especially combined with the sharp currents coursing through the rest of his body. He just — he’d rather wake up now. Please.

But he doesn’t. He loses long pieces of time but he’s still there, always there, in that cursed forest, on that bloody island. Waiting to die.

If one dies in their sleep, does that mean they die in reality too?

How long does it take?

Will he see Liam, at least? Milah? His mother?

Will he recognize them?

Another dawn. Another sunrise.

Too weak to turn toward water.

Too weak to do anything.

Gods, but he never wanted to die alone. Dream or not. Just… not alone.

* * *

**Image** : wounded Killian | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

*

Time slips and he falls, and then — he’s not in the forest. At last, he’s back — in that place indoors, with the woman he doesn’t know. Awake.

Only — it feels wrong. He feels wrong. Or at least, not much better than he did in the dream. In the forest. He’s lying on a bed and the light is — still muted, probably? Only he can’t really see. Everything is blurry, and wrong, and she is not there, holding his head in her lap or stroking his hair, and the loss feels — monumental.

He makes a noise, probably, because the next second she’s back, her hand a blessed cool weight on his cheek, her voice right by his ear.

“ _Killian._ ”

But it sounds wrong too, all choked up and tearful. He turns laboriously toward where her face must be. “No, it’s — okay,” he croaks.

“It’s not. This is not how it’s supposed to be. I don’t know how it is supposed to be exactly, but not like this. Not — I _refuse_.”

He has no idea what she is talking about, too tired and lost in the relief that he is not alone, after all. If this is it, he will not die alone.

There’s a dip of the bed and then press of another body along his side. Her hand rests on his chest, over his heart, and for a moment all there is is her smell, like the sea before a storm, and just like that, everything is calm. His heart, his thoughts, the world around them.

“Killian,” she whispers. “I need you to stay with me. Fight this. Hold on. You’re a _survivor_ , you can do this, _please—_ ”

He turns his head into her, unseeing but for some flashes of light; in pain but peaceful now. His burning cheek presses against her skin, cool and soft. Every breath is slower; every thought more fleeting.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I’m… sorry.”

He thinks he can hear a small sob and he wants to reach for her, to comfort her, but his heart is doing funny things in his chest and he has no control over his limbs anymore. The last thing he feels is a touch of her lips, wet with tears, on his forehead.

Light explodes before his eyes, the last rainbow-colored flash, and then everything turns black.

So this is death, then. Dark but peaceful, like he’s floating in nothingness, feeling light and almost — happy. The pain is gone, all of it. Between one breath and another, it’s just… gone, and a wave of relief rolls over Killian’s body, all his muscles relaxing for the first time in what feels like forever. After days in constant pain of varying degrees, it feels like a miracle. He takes a deep breath and it _doesn’t hurt_. Not in his chest, or his leg, or his head. His heart beats at a normal, steady pace, without the stuttering and tightness and—

His _heart_. Is _beating_.

He’s _breathing_.

He is not an expert, but he’s pretty sure there is no heartbeat or breath involved in death.

_Killian? How are you feeling?_

Her voice is in his head again, like when he was struggling to get to the shore, and she sounds like she’s smiling. He grins.

“Brilliant,” he says aloud. His voice is back, and back to normal. “What happened? Am I dead now?”

_No. You are very much alive._

“How?”

_I think... it was magic._

“Oh. That’s not good. Magic always comes with a price.”

_Not this magic. Don’t worry about it._

“Okay.” It’s so easy to just trust her. Even though he still has no idea who she is. “What happens now?”

_Now you will wake up and you’ll be okay. And you won’t remember any of this._

He frowns. “What? No.”

_I’m afraid so. So this is goodbye. Take care, Killian. Don’t get yourself killed, okay? Please._

“Wait!” He can’t see her, can’t see anything, not even the barest shape, and he hates that. But he has to ask — to try at least. “Wait, please. Just… tell me why. Why were you here? Why do you care if I’m okay, if I’m alive or dead? You don’t even know me, do you? So why?”

The moment of silence is so long he’s certain she must be gone already, but then her voice comes again.

_You and me, we are destined to meet one day. In the future. So try and stay alive, if you can._

Oh, but he has so many questions. When will they meet? Where? Who are they going to be to each other? What can he do to find her sooner? What is her name, so he knows when he’s looking for her everywhere? From now on. If he really survives. This is what he’s going to do, his quest. His hope.

But somehow, he knows asking would be futile.

“So this is not a goodbye then. It’s merely a see you later,” he says, and she laughs, soft and sweet.

_See you later, Killian. I’m looking forward to meeting you for real, one day._

And with that, she’s gone. He only has a moment to wrap himself up in that promise of a future, to tuck her voice and her touch and scent and the lovely sound of his name on her lips close to his heart, before he’s gone too, floating and fading until there’s nothing left.

*

Hook wakes to an ungodly loud croak of some bird in the tree above his head. Startled, he sits up, reaching blindly for his cutlass that isn’t there, and it takes him a moment to orient himself. An unfamiliar forest. A swatch of beach. Dried blood on his hook and ripped clothes.

Oh damnation. The sea monster.

The sea monster that wasn’t supposed to exist; that Pan sent him to fight on a dare, a challenge, a promise of freedom.

Well, the joke’s on him now, because Hook did kill the monster. Of that he is certain. And he has its crystal heart to prove it — somewhere. The pocket of his coat, probably.

What he is not certain of is how he has found himself here. Everything after the fight is fuzzy. The last thing he remembers clearly is falling to his knees on the deck as the beast thrashed in its death throes, and seeing the puddle of blood spreading from a wound in his thigh. And then getting slashed by one of the convulsing stingers, right across his neck and chest, hard enough to throw him into the roiling water.

He should be dead just from that stinger.

Oh well, clearly he is a better survivor than even he expected. The waves must have washed him ashore, and he crawled into the shadow of the trees when survival instinct hit. Ha, he’s even found a place with water somehow. Brilliant.

Grinning, Hook quenches his thirst from the crystal-clear pool of water and washes his face. He feels — fantastic, really. Oh, there are some bruises and cuts, but all in all, it went pretty perfectly, if he says so himself. Even the wound on his thigh, clearly visible through a tear in his trousers, is not nearly as bad as he initially thought. It must have been rather shallow because it’s closed up well already, looking much better than he would expect from a day-old injury. Or has it been longer? Was he sleeping off all the excitement? That would certainly explain why he’s starving. And why there is a vague memory of dreaming clinging to the corners of his mind.

Jumping to his feet, he pulls on the coat — when did he even take it off? — and checks the pockets. Sure enough, the crystal is still there, smooth and purple, larger than his fist, and he grins before tucking it safely back in. Right. First order of business, finding something to eat. And then he’ll see about locating his ship. If it hasn’t gone down, he’ll find it easily enough. And then he can go back to Neverland and free himself from Pan’s grasp for good.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**

Pan is not happy to see them go. Of course he isn’t — Peter Pan has never been one to take it graciously when somebody dares to foil his plans. And this? This is absolutely not going according to plan for him. But a deal is a deal, and soon the _Jolly Roger_ is sailing through the portal out of Neverland for the very last time. Hook has no intention of ever seeing these shores again in his life.

Too much has happened here, in those long, long years. It’s been the darkest of times for him — and not just because of all the grief and despair and nightmares. No. He has done things while on Pan’s missions that he never would have before – or at least, never would have without a reason. He’d been a pirate before Neverland, yes, but he’d had a code. He’d plundered and fought and killed when needed, but he’d never murdered. He hadn’t taken life without a good reason, never just for convenience or whimsy. All those years in Pan’s service have hardened his heart and he doesn’t want to think of all the people he’s killed needlessly; thoughtlessly.

Milah would’ve been dismayed, if she was alive.

But sailing through the portal this last time feels like starting over, and Hook feels lighter, somehow. His blackened, shriveled heart gives a few sluggish thumps, and the wind smells like new beginnings for a while.

Only, it can’t last.

Soon, he loses his crew — or what’s left of them, anyway. It’s nothing dramatic — just, one by one, they each decide that two centuries on a pirate ship has been enough for them; that it’s time to go in search of other adventures. Mr. Smee is the last to go, a month into their new-found freedom, and he looks wracked with guilt as he approaches Hook in some port town or another where they’d anchored for supplies.

“It’s just, I’ve always wanted to start a family one day,” he stutters, wringing his immortal red hat in his hands.” And it was my biggest regret in Neverland, that I would never get to, but now — now I can try.” He shuffles his feet, head down like a dog that knows it’s done something bad. “But if you need me, I will stay, Captain.”

And Hook could laugh, except he’s certain it would come out unhinged and awful.

Of course he needs Mr. Smee. There is nobody else left — nobody to help him sail his ship but more importantly, nobody who _knows_ him in this world.

But he won’t ask him to stay. Nobody should have gone through all that he’s made his crew endure. The least he can do is let them go and wish them all the best in their future endeavors. So he sends Mr. Smee off with a lighthearted joke and a smile, pocket heavy with gold to start him on his journeys, and manages to keep his face calm long enough to be sure nobody is looking before taking out one of his rum bottles and getting utterly smashed. And if he lies on the deck all night long feeling sorry for himself — well, there is no one there to see.

No one. Not a soul.

Oh, and he thought he was lonely before.

*

That night, when he finally falls — well, more into a drunken stupor than sleep, he dreams.

That has happened before, of course. Ever since leaving Neverland — ever since his little post-monster vacation on the deserted island, really — he’s been having increasingly vivid dreams that, for a welcome change, were not nightmares. It has been a monumental improvement over the endless years before — waking up with a vague memory of something pleasant and out of reach clinging to his mind. More than once since, he’s tried to remember, exhilarated with the novelty, but all efforts proved futile.

That night on the deck, though, it’s different. It’s like coming home. People from the past come to him with perfect clarity, pulled from some deep recesses of his memory, and he could cry because after decades of struggling to remember their faces, they are really there around him, and he knows without a doubt that yes, these are their actual features that he’d thought lost forever. Milah, with that fond smile, her beautiful face radiating love and joy. Liam, strong and loyal, looking proud of his little brother despite all of his mess-ups. Baelfire, young and soft around the edges, his face carefully hopeful rather than set in that hateful anger that was Hook’s last memory of him. Even his mother — details a little blurry with the age of memory, but her voice perfectly familiar and soothing in an old lullaby.

The vision is like a loving embrace that lasts for hours and if there was ever a dream that Killian would stay in forever, this would be it. He wants to scream when the images start to fade. Trying to hold on to the wisps of the dream slipping through his fingers doesn’t work. All he gets is the face of the seer girl — another one he hasn’t seen in a long time, but one he doesn’t care about one bit.

_Remember about hope, Captain,_ she says in her little girl voice, though her eyes are old and faded. _Let the hope in. It will change everything._

And then she blinks out of her dream existence and Hook wakes up, cold and sore from sleeping on deck, hungover and really, truly pissed. Furious at that witch taking up his time with his loved ones. Mad at her words. _Hope_. What good can it give him now? What does he have to be hopeful about? Everyone he’s ever loved is dead. Everyone who’s ever known him is gone. He has never been more alone than this, ever — how is he supposed to believe stupid _hope_ can help him in any way? Even if he wanted to believe ( _he does, he does_ ), he can’t.

There is only one thing left for him. It got him through centuries on a madman’s island, through despair and darkness deeper than anything he’d known before. It can get him through loneliness, too.

After all, he doesn’t need anyone to exact his revenge.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

**Image** : sailing the seas alone | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *

**9.**

It takes months of getting used to, but being alone is not so bad. Sure, Hook can’t really stay away from shore for longer than a few days at a time, with nobody else to mind the wheel when he inevitably has to get some rest, but at least he doesn’t have to care about anyone else. There is no one there to judge him, no crew to gather when he chooses to leave the port early, and no one pounding on the brothel’s door when he decides to prolong his stay.

Not that that happens all that often these days. Oh, he still finds eager women, working or not, whenever it strikes his fancy while visiting port towns to gather news of the Dark One. After all, two hundred years of neglecting his needs for the most part is not something he can make up for in a few months. But he prefers to have his fun and leave, nowadays. Not without satisfying the lady, of course — he is not a barbarian, after all — but sleeping over is a rare occurrence. And it’s all because of the dreams. Those strange, vivid dreams that still happen to him nearly every night.

He’s taken to waiting for sleep as if it’s a treat; a nightly show for him only — one he doesn’t get to understand, but always comes out of with some emotions: amusement, frustration, delight or restlessness, excitement or affection or embarrassment, even desire a few memorable times. After centuries of nothing but variations of grief, anger and despair that used to cut him up inside every hour of every day, it’s a welcome change. Now, days are filled with sailing or visiting port towns, following every rumor about the Dark One and the legendary dagger that is said to be capable of killing him. But nights — nights are Hook’s.

Almost a year into his solitary adventure, he has pages and pages of notes in his journal (right under his list of 187 potentially viable ways to kill Rumpelstiltskin, compiled over the years in Neverland). It’s been his way of trying to capture some of the bits and pieces that he brings out of the dreams sometimes, little treasures smuggled out in hidden pockets of his memory. It can be a random word, meaningless without context; a brief glimpse of an unknown place; a sound of laughter or a few notes or music, or — sometimes — a texture under his fingertips. Once, he woke up convinced he could smell perfume and spent the morning trying to identify the distinct notes of it before the memory dissipated into nothing.

He’s grown a routine about it, remembering the dreams. Staying in bed a few extra moments, with his eyes closed, mind still entangled in the remnants of a night’s dream. Treading softly, so that a random thought of reality doesn’t spook away those gentlest motes of sleep dust. Enjoying it, whatever the dream brought this time. It’s not something he’d ever expect to be doing, too soft for the fierce pirate captain that he is known across the realms to be, but that’s fine. This is his, and only his, more than anything else has been in a long time. He’s not interested in sharing it with anyone.

Clearly, he must have had too much rum tonight, though, because when he wakes up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and a word stuck on a loop in his mind, he is in an unfamiliar bed, in a tiny, stuffy room lit with an oil lamp, and there is a naked brunette sleeping on his shoulder, her perky breasts pressed invitingly against his side. Killian curses under his breath and sits up, dislodging the girl none too gently. She grumbles and turns onto her back, stretching.

“Mm, ready for more?” she purrs, and Killian turns his back to get up.

“No.”

He finds his clothes and pulls them on promptly, impatient to go. He needs to be alone because a dream is still echoing through his brain and he can feel himself losing strands of it with every breath, and this is _his_ , his own time that he doesn’t want to share with anyone, let alone a random bar wench. He drops a few coins on the bedside table and leaves without a word.

Outside, it’s still dark, not even hints of dawn lightening the horizon. The evening crowd has long dispersed, even the late drinkers having left the bars or fallen asleep under the tables, and as Killian walks through the narrow streets toward the marina, the world feels empty and quiet save for the song of the waves and the creaking of vessels. Mist clings to his heated skin and gives the area an otherworldly quality. It’s fitting, considering his dream.

He remembers just bits and pieces of it, more vague impressions than sharp pictures, but the feeling of otherworldliness is there. The place he dreamed of was different from anything he’d ever seen, even though he can’t say exactly what the differences were. And that in itself is saying something, because Killian is pretty sure he’s seen every realm in this world at least once.

The name — if it is a name — sounds foreign too. Killian waits until he is back in his cabin, stretched in his bed in the familiar darkness, before he whispers it.

 _Storybrooke_.

*

Compared to the nights, days bring little but frustration. He’s been following the trail of rumors ever since he left Neverland, and everywhere he asks, in every tavern and every port, people have stories of the Dark One. There’s always someone who heard of an acquaintance of their wife’s third cousin or a neighbor who moved away or that one strange woman from the market — someone who made a deal with Rumplestiltskin at one point or another, or had some other sort of brush with him. Inevitably, it always turns out to have been a long while ago and the person they are talking about is not easily available to question.

In the long run it’s all just so… tedious. Wearing him thin, as if he has been tied together with rope that’s falling apart from age and use. His body is still young, thanks to the magic of Neverland, but his soul knows his real age and cannot be deceived. Hatred, vile and corrosive, has burned holes in his heart.

He’s tired. In a normal turn of events, he should be dead already, after a long, fulfilling life, but all that has filled it for too many years to count is hunger for revenge that never seems to be any closer. He wonders if there is any point, sometimes — and then he remembers the Dark One’s jeering as he crushed his love’s heart in his scaly hand, and he gets up and goes on — because he owes it to her. If nothing else, he owes it to her. Because she deserved better.

But after those long months and then years of following news and gossip, of planning and plotting and always feeling two steps removed from the world, he still has no solid clues where to look for the crocodile or the dagger which — if Baelfire is to be believed — is the only weapon that can truly kill the monster. And it’s just — hard to keep up the motivation, sometimes.

It’s a little bit funny, actually. Hook has kept up his thirst for revenge for all of his years in Neverland. For a major swath of that time it was the only thing keeping him alive there — the only prospect that gave his life the slightest bit of sense and purpose. Now that he has all the time and resources at his disposal, it’s as if he’s struggling through quicksand. Every step takes immense effort and more often than not he has to remind himself why he is doing this at all.

Some days it’s hard to get out of bed, and not because he’s not rested. He’d just much rather be dreaming.

So one day he allows himself just that. He stays in bed longer than any self-respecting pirate should and then spends the day walking around the town he’s anchored in last night, with nothing in particular on his mind other than a sunny spring day and a dry, airy forest that is nothing like the jungle of Neverland. In the evening, he sits in the tavern with rum and a small gathering of other sailors and tells stories, for once not asking for information — for once not thinking about the crocodile at all. When a pretty bar wench winks at him again around midnight, he puts on his most sultry smile and follows when she takes his hand and leads him upstairs.

It’s refreshing. So the next day he does it again.

Soon it becomes a habit; something he’s never allowed himself to have before: no particular purpose. Just enjoying whatever a day (or night) brings; just being. It’s only a little break, he tells himself. Just a bit of time to get his motivation back. He deserves it after his stint in Neverland, doesn’t he?

And it helps, too. He feels looser than he has… probably ever. He meets people he actually enjoys talking to. And the dreams are that much more vivid, that much easier to remember when he doesn’t force himself back into revenge mode every day. He gets more little things out of them — more words found in the recesses of memory; more pictures that his mind takes out of nowhere. They touch him more, too.

 _Husband_. That’s the word on Killian’s lips when he startles awake in the pitch black of his cabin one night. His heart is pounding, but it’s not panic like when he used to wake from nightmares. He pauses and breathes, tries to name the emotion the way he’s been teaching himself to. Excitement? Fear? Hopeful anticipation? The word hangs in the air, weird and out of place, and Killian’s skin prickles with goosebumps in the cold pre-dawn air. But for some reason, inside he feels warm, like…

Like he’s not alone.

And this is such an alien, forgotten feeling that for a moment, he can only breathe against the tightness in his chest. The clench of his _heart_. Of Captain Hook’s cold dark heart that has long been done clenching with anything. Or so he thought.

It’s easy, alone in the forgiving darkness, to let himself think, just for a moment, that maybe it is not so. That somewhere deep down, there is still a shadow of the man Milah loved — a man who could be funny and generous and even kind, and who could love with all of his pirate heart. One who had a code and an honor. One that he could maybe, possibly, be again, one day.

He closes his eyes, settles back against his pillow, and right before slipping back into sleep, he sees it.

A sliver of a smile.


	10. Chapter 10

**10.**

It’s a few months into his “break” that Killian hears it. He’s sitting in a bar with a pretty lady on his knee, playing with her hair and contentedly listening to the chatter around. The world is… not bad. Not perfect, maybe, but definitely bearable. He’s leisurely thinking about maybe hiring a new crew one of these days. Doing a bit of good old-fashioned pirating.

And then a snippet of conversation between two local men at the next table catches his ear.

“And she’s all alone with the young ones now. Four of them! No baby, no husband, no money…”

“Well that’s what happens when one tangles with dark magic though. He should’ve known better. What was it he needed from… Him?”

“Oh, he got into a stupid bet. Gambled all he had on poor odds so he thought he—”

Before he knows it, Hook has pushed the girl to her feet and is moving toward the other table, his heart pounding frantically.

“Apologies for interrupting,” he cuts in. “Are you by any chance talking about the Dark One? Was he nearby, recently?”

One of the men regards him critically, clearly disgruntled at the interruption, but the other nods eagerly.

“One and the same, yes! As I was saying, he’d come and taken my sister’s newborn not two days ago. Her husband, the bastard, promised him the next child he has. The stupid plonk thought himself so smart — the healer said my sister cannot have any more after her troubles last year, and now look at that! The Dark One’s gone and took the baby, and when my brother-in-law tried to protest, he just snapped his fingers and changed him into a mouse with that terrible, terrible giggle of his.”

He drinks deeply from the tankard before him, and Hook nods to the passing girl to bring all of them another. He pulls up a stool. Smelling a fresh trail has set his blood alight.

“So nobody has found a way to kill him yet, then?” he asks casually.

“Ah, as if. He cannot be killed, don’t you know? We’re forever doomed to his whims.”

“Well, not quite,” the other man says, much happier now with a fresh tankard on the table. “They say there are ways. Anybody can be killed, with the right weapon.”

“If only one knew where to find such a weapon,” Hook suggests, faux-casually.

“Well, they say—” The man leans close to him, lowering his voice as if afraid the Dark One might be around, listening, “there was a girl who used to live with him. She must have learnt a lot of his secrets, don’t you think? I’m thinking, if one were to find her, force her to talk—”

“And where might one find her? Hypothetically, of course.”

“Ah. That may be a bit of a problem. She’s rumored to be the Evil Queen’s… special guest.”

“Is that so?” Hook grins and gets to his feet. “Thank you, gentlemen. This has been most informative.”

The girl he was flirting with earlier tries to catch his eye as he strides to the exit, but he has no time for fun now. He’s going to skin himself a crocodile. Victory is so close he can almost taste it — at last.

It’s exhilarating and infuriating all at once, this sudden shift in his interest. He feels alive, crackling with energy, with his purpose firmly back in place. But at the same time, guilt and anger are biting at him already. He should have been at it all along. Should have persevered instead of faffing about doing nothing for months, letting that monster roam free and ruin more people every day, the way he’d ruined Killian, long ago. How many lives could have been spared, how much misery prevented, if he’d kept asking and searching all along?

That’s enough. He will not waste one more moment. It’s not too far to the Evil Queen’s castle. He’s leaving for it at the break of dawn.

*

In the end, it’s not that easy — because nothing’s ever easy in his life, is it? But he’s on the right track now, at least, and he is not going to let go. Revenge awaits, and no matter the price, he’s ready to pay it. And if he has to work with others of, let’s say, dubious reputation — so be it. Let it not be told that Captain Hook cannot plan and plot with the best of them. He’s ready.

Whatever is waiting out there, it cannot be worse than the life he has been living since Milah’s death. Or if it can, it won’t probably last long, at least. He will take that.

And then there’s a weird sense of deja vu when Cora says, “Storybrooke.”

“What did you say?” He snaps his head round to look at her, and she only smiles that infuriating calm smile, like she knows everything he’s thinking.

“The town where my daughter is. And your crocodile. It’s called Storybrooke.”

_Storybrooke_. The name out of one of his dreams. A place he’s never heard of before. So it apparently exists, and he is apparently going there.

Excellent.

“Storybrooke it is,” he says, and looks around as Cora casts her spell, watches the barrier of it descend around them. _A blink_ , she said. _You won’t even notice._

He closes his eyes.

*

When he opens them, everything is dark around him — dark of a void, of nothingness, not a normal night. He looks around, feeling wobbly and unstable, disconcerted. What the hell happened? Is this the spell?

“Cora?” he calls out. The sound is muted, as if coming through wool, and there is no answer. Hook turns around, heart pounding. “Is anyone here?”

There’s a flash of light and paths begin to unspool around him, growing and widening into paved roads leading in five directions, ending with wooden doors in different colors.

“What the—”

Well, magic. It’s not entirely new that it would work in ways different than he expected. He’s never trusted the blasted thing.

“Fine, I’ll play,” he calls out and steps onto the first road to his right, ending with a navy-blue door. He’s only taken a couple of steps when — _blink!_ — the world around him changes again.

He is standing on the deck of the _Jolly Roger_ , in the middle of the sea with no land in sight. There is a long dagger in his hand with a peculiar, wavy sort of blade, and in the pale light of the moon he can clearly read the name on it: _Rumplestiltskin_. The man himself is standing in front of him, immobile and not laughing this time, and Hook can only feel his own hand move in a sharp thrust, the dagger sinking into flesh easily and soundlessly. The crocodile — the Dark One — the _monster_ that took everything from him folds in on himself and he’s not the shiny, scaly creature anymore. He’s the man Killian saw all those years ago, in the tavern and then on his ship — lame and bleeding and pathetic. Just a body curled up on the deck, exactly where Milah died. Killian drops the weapon and stares at it, feeling shell-shocked, empty. His hands are shaking and he blinks unexpected tears from his eyes and—

He’s not on the ship anymore. He’s at another crossroads in the dark, another set of paths leading in different directions, and he stares, gasping for air. What has just happened? Where is his ship and the Dark One’s body; where is the navy-blue door? The colors are all different this time so he picks at random, a sparkly white door.

A blink and he’s in a crowded ballroom, among splendidly-dressed people, music filling the air. He’s wearing unfamiliar clothes and he is dancing. When was the last time he went dancing anywhere? There is a woman in his arms — a woman in a red dress, but he cannot see her clearly. It’s more like an idea of a woman, a silhouette, and if Killian had any doubts this is not reality before, now he knows for sure. But it still feels nice, being close to her like that, moving to music. She laughs at something and he frowns, taken aback. He knows that laughter. He’s heard it before.

Blink. Another set of doors. Another choice.

This time he is dying. He must be, that’s all that this could be. There is a sword being driven through his abdomen, a long dark sword and it _hurts_ , and someone is crying quiet, desperate sobs as they catch him, catch him and hold him and the world fades away.

He’s gasping as he opens his eyes at the crossroads again and has to press his hand to his stomach to check, to make sure— But no, there is no blood, no wound, even though he can still feel the phantom of the pain. _Choices_ , he remembers suddenly, and the long-ago visit of the dying seer comes to mind unbidden. Is that what it is? Is it what’s waiting for him, the visions of what will be? That doesn’t seem that bad. Killing the Dark One, dancing at a ball… ah, yes. And then dying by sword. That’s the less fun part.

Slowly, deliberately, he picks another door — the dark gray of a brewing storm this time — and barely has to take a step before another place blinks into existence. He’s sitting in an armchair, in a dimly-lit white room, holding a newborn baby swaddled in a blanket. It feels so real – the weight of the little bundle in his arms, barely anything at all, and there are tears in his eyes, his breath catching because he knows — he knows beyond any doubt that the little sleeping girl is his. His daughter. He’s a father.

Sooner than he’s ready, though, the white room is gone and — _no_ , not _yet_. Killian turns on his heel and tries to get back to the place he’s just left, only the door is blood-red now and when he takes a step, he ends up in a very different room, one that is small and dark, with only a tiny window in a curved wall. There are multiple chests full of gold and jewels at his feet, overflowing, and when he looks outside, he sees endless forest and, to his right, choppy seas. The air shimmers a few feet from the window, imbued with some sort of magical barrier, and he doesn’t have to check to know that it wasn’t set to keep him in — but to keep the world out. He feels tired and empty, bitter. Worn thin. It’s not a happy feeling.

Blink.

He’s on the _Jolly Roger_ again, explaining sailing to a young boy. He can’t see his face, but it’s not Baelfire. Of that he is sure.

Blink.

The Dark One is standing before him, looking like a normal man this time, albeit in clothing that looks out of this realm. Only his smile and his attitude betray him. Oh, and the fact that he’s holding Killian’s heart in his hand, squeezing, squeezing…

Blink.

Somebody’s holding him close, skin to skin, in an intimate embrace of people who love each other and have for a while. He can smell her scent, like the sea before storm, and feel her hair flowing silky against his fingers; he can hear her heartbeat. He hasn’t felt so at peace… ever, probably. So of course—

Blink.

Milah is standing in front of him, a town behind her dark and strange, the air ominous.

Blink.

He’s in Neverland again and he knows with absolute certainty that a thousand years have passed and there is nothing beyond its borders anymore — no other realms, nothing and no one, only void.

Blink.

He’s dancing with a young blonde girl in a room at the top of a tower. Her laughter sounds like sweet music to his ears even before she calls him Papa.

Blink.

A group of people are crowded around a long table, adults and babies, laughing and passing dishes, the air full of chatter and laughter. He can’t see their faces, not nearly clearly enough, but he knows they are smiling at him, that he is part of that group. Of _family_. The sense of belonging is almost painful in its loveliness.

Blink.

The Dark One is keeping a hold on him with his magic, crushing him against the wall, paralyzed, helpless, unable to breathe. The monster is laughing, laughing endlessly as Killian’s vision fades to just flashes of light and his lungs are ready to burst—

Blink.

— and then he _is_ the Dark One, rising from within the earth itself swathed in swirling strands of black. No. _No_.

_Blink_.

He’s lying on his side in the dark room, his head on a woman’s lap. Her fingers are carding gently through his hair, and he can see a sliver of a smile, a lock of long hair falling on her shoulder.

And he _remembers_. The sea monster. The island and the fever, falling in and out of consciousness. _Dying_. Only not.

“Hello, Killian,” she says in her strange, echoing voice, and there is warmth in it, and a smile.

“What— How— How are you here?” he asks, breathless, overwhelmed with too many visions, too many emotions.

“I’m not. This is all in your head.”

“But— These are all visions of my future, aren’t they?”

“Different versions of it, yes.”

“Do any of them come true?”

“Any one of them can. That depends on you. The roads you choose.”

He nods. “So that means I still have a chance of meeting you one day, then?”

“It appears you do, Killian. I’m looking forward to it.”

_Blink_.

Killian opens his eyes and the light _hurts_ after — however long it was, in the darkness; the sun is high on the sky, reflecting on the shimmer of magic as it dissipates. He feels stiff and sore — even turning his head is harder than during the worst hangover. To his left, Cora is straightening the skirt of her dress, looking utterly unaffected.

And he remembers _everything_.

It takes his breath away for a moment, that avalanche of images — more like disjointed scenes from a theater play than visions. His face must be reflecting the chaos he feels because Cora takes one look at his and laughs.

“See, Captain? I told you it would only be a blink. Now come. We have a journey to plan.”


	11. Chapter 11

**11.**

The problem with trying to make the right choices after literal lifetimes of only caring about your own goals is how easy it is to slip back into the old patterns.

Dreams, even those not forgotten upon awakening, inevitably become elusive. Abstract. Shadows of themselves. When faced with real-life events, even the most life-changing visions lose their power, diluted by reason and doubts. Killian preserved the memory of the dream he had during the curse the best he could, writing all of the “blinks” down in as much detail as he could remember as soon as he got his hands on a scrap of paper and a piece of lead. It has helped him hold on to that sense of wonder and hope in the weeks and months that came after, but the more time passes, the more convinced he’s becoming that it just won’t be enough.

How is he supposed to be a good man, to make the _right_ choices every time, when all he’s been making for the majority of his unnaturally long life were the wrong ones? How can he forget about revenge when he hears the Dark One’s name or sees him strutting around with that self-satisfied smirk? Does Killian even have the moral compass necessary to steer him in the right direction? He had a code, once, and he’d like to believe that it will be enough, but for a long time it feels like dancing on a fraying rope; one step forward and five stumbling steps back.

He’d like to think he’s Killian again, but all too often Captain Hook takes over the reins and what little progress he might’ve made is undone.

What’s the point in hoping for anything better, anyway? He is nothing but a pirate to those around him; a tool to use when convenient and discard without a second thought once he’s no longer needed. Why would anything ever change? Why not make a clean cut of it and leave, never looking back?

It’s as he’s sailing away from Storybrooke with a magic bean in his hand, considering which realm is his best chance and trying hard not to think of the fate of those he’s leaving behind, that he realizes: it doesn’t matter where he goes. Wherever he ends up, the scenery might be different, but the important things will not: loneliness and lack of purpose are things he’s taking with him. He’s chosen himself and however hard he pretends, this is his life now. He can hire a new crew; surround himself with women and spend every night in revelry, but that will only be a temporary bandage. Underneath, he will always be the man who’s wasted centuries on wishing for revenge only to give it up and never find anything else. A man who, yes, lost people he cared about, but then never tried to find new ones he could get close to. Never stayed to give himself the chance.

_Loneliness and pain_ , come the seer’s words from a long, long time ago. _And hope._

He’s tried the first two. He’s lived through them so thoroughly he’s utterly sick of them. Maybe it’s time to try the last one.

But he tried already, his brain protests. It only brought more pain; more loneliness.

_I don’t see any version of your life that is easy, Captain —_ a memory returns, clear as day. _But there are choices. I see versions filled with hope and joy. With love._

He thinks about one of the glimpses from his sleep during the curse — one of his favorites. It’s nothing much, just sharing a meal with a group of people who all seem content to have him there. Even with the memory of the vision faded, it’s still powerful. This is all he wants, he realizes: a chance to be a part of something greater. To build instead of destroy. To not be alone.

_You can join us and be a part of something or you can do what you do best and be alone._ Emma’s voice rings fresh in his memory. She _gets_ it. He knows by now she does. There is a thread of understanding between them.

And it may not be easy because other than his crew, he’s never really had a family that he can remember as such. He doesn’t know how, and with his reputation and record, he doesn’t exactly invite trust.

But hey, he needs a purpose anyway.

He may as well go crazy and gamble it big. Put it all on hope.

With one last glum look at the bean, Killian Jones turns the _Jolly Roger_ back toward Storybrooke — and his future.


	12. Chapter 12

**12.**

Recognition has come slowly, in barely noticed bits and pieces during their rather busy stint in Neverland. Or did it start even before that, back in Storybrooke? Killian can’t really tell.

It takes some much-needed time alone at the helm, once everyone else have finally gone below deck to rest after their adventures, for him to finally connect the dots. Or rather — connect the shape of a smile in the darkness and the way she brushed a strand of hair off her shoulder; little bits of life story that ring familiar and the way her fingers felt in his hair when she kissed him (She _kissed_ him!). After that, it’s really only a matter of time before his memory brings back the melody of her voice and _We are destined to meet one day,_ and for a moment, his heart pounds so hard he can’t breathe.

He’s found her.

There is no doubt in his mind about it now that he’s recognized all the signs that have been right under his nose for days. It’s _her —_ the woman from his vision, the one who kept him company when he was alone on the island and recovering ( _dying_ ) after the fight with the sea monster. It’s _Emma_.

That explains the familiarity he’s felt from the moment of their first meeting — the ease that had nothing to do with attraction at first. He’d talked to her before. They were destined to meet. And now they have.

It doesn’t explain what that means or who they are supposed to be for each other. Says nothing about their future. All Killian can tell is that Emma hasn’t recognized _him_ , and even that can mean different things. Is she aware of ever being in his visions? Does she know about their destiny?

Should he tell her?

No. This one is easy at least. She is skeptical, careful in believing. Jumping up with fate and dream visions is a surefire way to spook her. Hells, Killian is feeling pretty spooked himself right now, and he grew up aware of magic. This will need time to properly process.

Quiet footsteps on the stairs shake him out of his thoughts and he knows it’s Emma even before he sees the blonde of her hair reflecting the moonlight. Seeing her like this, fresh from his revelation, makes Killian’s breath catch in his throat. He’s been aware of her for days, always feeling her presence whenever she was nearby. The ever-growing pull to be in her orbit as he watched her lead and fight, vibrant and powerful like life itself, a force to be reckoned with. There was a spark from the start but then they kissed, and something inside him _ignited_. He wouldn’t be able to put out the blaze if he tried now. (He doesn’t want to try.)

And now, in this moment, there is nothing else, just the sea and the moon, and the two of them. There may be people sleeping down below but it doesn’t matter. Here, now, it’s only Emma and him. Just like in his vision.

“Hi,” she says, and her smile is tired but genuine. “Don’t you need rest?”

“Somebody has to steer us out of Neverland and I have gone much longer than this without sleep. Don’t worry, Swan. I will rest when we reach our destination.” He watches as she wanders closer, finally stopping near him, hip leaning against the helm. He could reach out and touch her if he tried. He knows better. “What about you?”

She shakes her head. “Can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see all the things that could’ve gone wrong. This was crazy, this whole endeavor was absolutely insane, Hook. We almost lost Henry today.” Her voice breaks slightly with emotion and that sounds familiar too. Killian shoos the thought away.

“The important part is that you didn’t. He’s safe and sound, sleeping just downstairs. Everything is all right.”

“It wouldn’t be if not for you.”

“I played but a small part—”

“No, you didn’t. None of this would have worked without you. You brought us here, you found Tink and saved David and—”

“— and your father was right, none of it would’ve been necessary if not for my decision to make a run for it.”

“Maybe. But the important part is that you came back. That couldn’t have been easy, not after all that happened to you in that town.” She wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “Honestly, I am not sure I’d have done it.”

“You wouldn’t have left in the first place. You’re not a villain.”

“Well, neither are you. Not from what I’ve seen.”

And he could say that she hasn’t really seen anything — could give her a long list of crimes that should never be forgiven, but the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He wants to bask in the warmth of her words just for a little while. And he _has_ been trying to be a better man, however inexpertly; one step forward, two steps back, stumbling his way through mess-ups and mistakes — he’s been trying.

“Somebody told me a long time ago that I could walk another path one day,” he says earnestly. He’s never told that to another soul before. “That with the right choices, I might even have my own happy ending. Do you think it’s possible?”

He’s not sure why it’s so crucial to hear Emma’s thoughts on the matter but suddenly he feels like he’s standing on a precipice, like he’s waiting for a sentence that determines his life or death.

“Oh, absolutely,” she says without a beat of hesitation. “I don’t see what else makes the difference between the hero and the villain but the choices they make. _We_ make,” she finishes quietly, and her eyes are sad for a moment, and faraway.

Killian swallows through a tightened throat and takes a deep breath.

“Right. So, Swan, would you like to learn how to sail?”

* * *

**Image** : it's her. Emma. | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**13.**

Night has fallen outside and everyone has left at last, with promises to return in the morning. The strange white room is much cozier with the lights dimmed and curtains drawn, now that they are alone together. Emma and him.

And their daughter.

Their _daughter_. Killian has been repeating the word to himself for the last three hours, ever since this whole intense, breathtaking process of bringing her into this world concluded — and he still can’t believe they allowed him to be there with his wife all along; will forever be grateful for that chance. He could witness his child’s first breaths, support Emma in the hard work, be there for her — and he couldn’t be more in awe of her strength.

And now he has a daughter.

He’s sitting in an armchair by Emma’s bed, with the baby in his arms, and his chest is tight with all the emotions. There was a time when he could have never imagined this for himself — being a husband and a father, and a fully integrated part of such a large and complicated family. After all he’d been through before he met her, and everything they’ve survived together — after battles and curses, losing each other and finding ways back — this is all he’s ever wanted, right here in this small hospital room in Storybrooke. The love of his life — his wife, his True Love — and the tiny baby girl they’ve created together.

He marvels at her little face, peaceful as she looks up with unfocused blue eyes; touches every impossibly tiny finger; falls in love with every snuffling little sound she makes.

How is this his life? How can something so perfect be his?

_Hope and the right choices,_ _captain_ , says a familiar voice in his head. _You’re a hero now. You’ve done good. You’ve earned your happy ending._

And — he knows that the seer is not really here; that it’s just his imagination. But in that moment, he couldn’t be more grateful. He never would have gotten here if it wasn’t for her visions quietly feeding his hope, even when he claimed he didn’t need it. He doesn’t want to think where he might have been if it wasn’t for them. Certainly not here; definitely nowhere near this quiet room filled with so much love. Would he even have met Emma, without those? And even if he had, would he have dared to love her?

There have been countless moments on his path where he could have taken a different direction; thousands of tiny things that could have led him to entirely different futures. He can tell exactly where those crossroads lay, in some cases. In others, he can only guess what would have taken him to the moments he saw in the glimpses of his visions. So many times, he doubted his choices or despaired, certain he had lost it all again to the dark — only to get up and try once more; only for Emma and him to find their way to each other again.

None of it would have been possible without the hope he’d so stubbornly resisted once.

He looks up from his daughter, now well on her way to slumber, and catches Emma watching him with a soft, tired smile. His heart aches with all the love that can barely fit inside it.

“Thank you,” he says, and if his voice breaks, it’s quite all right. It’s not every day that a man gets such a gift from life.

“Let’s see if you still thank me when it’s your turn to get up for diaper duty in the middle of the night.” She’s teasing, but Killian knows that he will do anything, everything, to make her happy — to make both of them happy.

“I’m sure I will, Emma. I will be forever grateful for what you’ve given me.” He strokes one finger across the baby’s cheek. When he looks up, Emma’s eyes are filled with tears — and she’s laughing.

“Oh god, hormones. I love you, but please stop making me cry.” She wipes her eyes. “Now, do we have any ideas for the name?”

They’ve waited until now rather than plan the name ahead as was apparently the modern way in this world. Emma was certain that they would just know, once the baby was born.

She was right.

“Hope,” Killian says, and it sounds _right_. “I think — her name is Hope.”

THE END


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